Authors: Dirk Hayhurst
Out of My League (38 page)
Chapter Seventy-one
“I’m so sorry,” I said, again, now laying my head on hers. “I can’t believe I said those things.” We were huddled in the corner of the room in a blanket now. It’s funny what part of a finely appointed room feels safe and comfortable when your heart is torn up.
“It’s alright,” she offered.
“No, it’s not. I should never talk to you like that,” I said. “There is nothing so important in my life that it can justify me hurting you the way I did. I’m sorry.”
She smiled at me for the first time all night. Her face was still red from emotion, but she’d stopped crying a while ago, shortly after I crawled to her feet, begging for her forgiveness.
I shed tears as well, though mine came from different reasons than hers. Mine came from the clear realization of what life in the big leagues had done to me, and to those around me. I’d lost my confidence, my patience, and nearly my fiancée in the desperate struggle to get to and excel in the place I’d always dreamed of being. I was hurting the people I cared about as a way of getting even with what was hurting me. Bonnie would say I was misdirecting emotions, but she didn’t have to. She only had to call me Dallas for me to see that in just a month’s worth of time I had turned into what I despised most about this game.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” I said.
“I don’t want to fight anymore either,” said Bonnie.
I kissed her head. “But I’m afraid I’ll keep acting like this unless I learn how to deal with all the pressure up here. I suppose it would be a lot easier if I showed I had the talent.”
“What was that line you said to me about how doing well just covers up the opportunity for you to get better?” asked Bonnie, citing the great baseball excuse for failure. “Maybe it’s more than an excuse?”
“Yeah, maybe,” I said, dropping my head, disgusted with myself.
Bonnie measured her words before continuing. “I don’t want you to think I’m being positive just to be positive, but you definitely have the talent to do this with no excuses or rationalizing.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But pitching is not all you do up here. The scrutiny, the unspoken rules, the expectations, the egos. Obviously I can’t handle it all. Look at how I’ve treated you. Look at how I treat myself.” I nodded to the open refrigerator and the bottles of booze on the floor. “If it was just what happened on the field, that would be one thing. But it’s not. This isn’t just a game up here, it’s a way of life, and I don’t think I’m cut out for it. In fact”—I looked away from her, embarrassed by what I was about to say—“I don’t think I like it here.”
“I understand,” said Bonnie.
“I don’t. It’s the big leagues,” I said.
“Honey, not everything we dream of is as great as we think it’s going to be when we finally realize it. Your experiences and emotions are relevant regardless of how worshiped this league is or isn’t because they are yours.”
“Thanks for saying that.”
“Of course. And yes, that was me analyzing you.”
“I guess your therapy isn’t so bad after all.”
“It’s not all songs and positive repetition, you know.”
“I’m sorry I insulted your profession. I really respect what you do. I just ...” The words trailed away. After a few moments, I began again. “When you get the paychecks I’ve been getting lately ... When you’re in front of thousands of fans and surrounded by guys watching every little thing you do like it’s life or death, you start to think you’re so important, and everything else is somehow not.” I turned to Bonnie with a defeated look on my face. “I don’t like who I am up here,” I finished.
“I’m not fond of it either. Not just because of today, but because since you’ve got here, you’ve been on edge. Even before you got here, back when you were close to getting called up, you started turning into this obsessed person.”
“I was so hungry for this to happen because of all I’ve”—I caught myself—“because of all we’ve sacrificed. I wanted us to have a good start. I wanted us to never struggle like my parents. I wanted our marriage to be a dream. But then, it wasn’t enough. I wanted to be powerful. I wanted to be respected. I wanted to matter.”
“Why do you think those things will make our life together better?” Bonnie searched my face. “Why do you need them so badly? What do they really give you besides some false sense of security? And what if struggling a little is what makes us the most happy? Some of the most fun we’ve had has been planning our wedding on a tight budget. You bring out a creative side of me I never knew I had. Our wedding is going to be awesome, and completely us because of the circumstances we’ve had to work through to pull it off. I’m proud of that,” she declared.
“Me too,” I said.
“We did it, we’re a good team.”
“I agree.”
“And I still want to share my life with you,” she added.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Absolutely.”
“Even after how I acted?”
“I’m not marrying you because you’re perfect, and I’m certainly not marrying you because the world loves your job. I’m marrying you because you’re you and you’re perfect for me. I’ll fight to keep you, even if
you
are the enemy.” She smiled at me, and rubbed my back. “But if you still feel guilty, I will allow you to apologize to me again in the form of a dessert from room service.”
you
are the enemy.” She smiled at me, and rubbed my back. “But if you still feel guilty, I will allow you to apologize to me again in the form of a dessert from room service.”
“You sure the big leagues aren’t rubbing off on you a little?” I asked, reaching for the menu on the table across from us.
“Maybe a little,” she said, smiling.
I handed her the menu, but before I relinquished it to her, I asked, “Would you still love me if I quit?”
“Of course, honey.”
“We’ve made a good chunk of money this year. We’ve made a lot more out of baseball than most. I got to the Bigs, I’ve experienced my dream. I’ll always get to say I made it here. I doubt anyone would ever understand it, but ...”
“But what?”
“After Balsley said what he did to me tonight, after this whole failed experience, I feel like I don’t even know what I’m playing for.”
“Are you telling me this because you honestly are thinking about quitting and you want my approval, or because this has been so hard on you?”
“I don’t know. My confidence is definitely shot. Maybe that’s why Balsley said what he did, to give me a gut check. Well, it worked. I’m wondering what my purpose in baseball is now that I’m looking at it from the top and the bottom at the same time.”
Bonnie sat with the menu on her lap and weighed her words carefully. “I don’t know,” she said. “That’s a question only you can answer.”
Chapter Seventy-two
Bonnie left at the end of the Washington series. It was more of a
see you soon
than a good-bye since, in a week, I’d be coming home myself. In two weeks we’d be married, and off on our honeymoon and a new life together. However, before that would happen, I had one more week to get through as a Padre.
see you soon
than a good-bye since, in a week, I’d be coming home myself. In two weeks we’d be married, and off on our honeymoon and a new life together. However, before that would happen, I had one more week to get through as a Padre.
After the series, the team made its long trek back across the country for our final games of the season. We went to LA, then back to Petco, where we’d finish up against the Pirates. At this point, it didn’t matter who we played, where we played them, or if I played at all. I didn’t care anymore. I’d lost nearly all desire for baseball, the few last remaining bits dying when I watched Bonnie wipe tears into a homemade stuffed animal.
I quit working out. No more heading into the weight room to do a forty-five-minute eyewash routine. No more showing up seven hours early to sit at my locker and fake dedication. No more sycophantic veteran worship. I didn’t care what anyone thought of me, save maybe Hoffman, whom I’d been too chicken to talk to since my arrival. The way I saw it, I had a 9 ERA, I already knew I didn’t belong here, so I might as well enjoy the time I had left the best way I knew how—sitting at my locker in my underwear, eating Fig Newtons and throwing the wrappers on the floor for the clubhouse elves to collect.
I asked for extra equipment I didn’t need just so I could stockpile free stuff. I even started hoarding big league baseballs, filling my computer bag with them and smuggling them from the stadium. These pleasures felt good, for a little while, but they faded fast. Even writing down the experiences of getting to the Show didn’t seem to help me make sense of it all. I just could not shake the feeling that I was not supposed to be here.
The incredible irony that I should have this dilemma while sitting in a major league locker room was not lost on me. However, its lack of logic in no way diminished the empty feeling I had recently developed for the game. Naturally, as instructed by all my player friends, I thought of the money. But then I began thinking that whether it was money, Newtons, clothes, cars, or houses, having all the pleasures the big leagues could throw my way would eventually fade, and then what?
There was the fame factor. How many people would love to be me, to be standing on a major league mound, the center of the world’s attention? But would there always be a crowd to brag to, and did those people really care about me, or just the ideal of wearing my jersey? The issue with fame, even moderate amounts of it, is that people feel like they have the right to rate your worth. And, as I’d learned from being around players I had yet to prove my worth to, when everyone thinks you’re worthless it’s pretty hard to disagree.
I decided that the will to compete was the reason I should keep going, and that to quit would be in direct defiance of that rule. But, frankly, getting your ass repeatedly kicked is no fun, especially when you have no hope of it stopping.
Team stretches came and went. Many of the other rookies took things seriously since they felt they still had something to prove. Not me, I stretched and shagged batting practice off in some distant land. I couldn’t be further away from Petco, floating in a world where the sun was not powered by major league dreams, stats, and historical significance. Where no children came running up for my autograph and no gentle-eyed Irish cop tipped his hat at me. Standing out there, thinking about it all, I had to wonder if I had ever done anything significant outside a baseball field, or if it was all for nothing.
I had been sent back to the pen, and during the night’s game, I sat in my corner of the pen, silent like usual. Relievers buzzed around me, eating their candy, flicking their seeds, and smoking their cigarettes. Hoffman came out around his usual time and sat in his customary spot. I watched him, like I always did, wondering what it must be like to be in his shoes knowing that all of his time in the Show had purpose and meaning. Then, something dawned on me; the season would be over in two days and I’d spent most of my time afraid to speak to the one man on this team I wanted to be around more than any other. Why not talk to him, I decided; after all, I had nothing left to lose.
I got up from my corner of bench and slunk down to his. I nodded to him, as I arrived, then took a seat next to him.
“What’s up, kid?” he asked, noting my departure from standard routine.
“Hey, Hoffy. I don’t mean to bother you, but I may not be up here again and I want to be able to say I actually spoke with you for more than a few seconds.”
“Um, okay.” Hoffman smirked at my formal explanation. “What’s on your mind?”
“I know people ask you about your changeup all the time, and your routine, and your focus, and I could ask about that too. But I’ve been watching you ever since I got up here, and it’s easy to see that your hands are massive, which makes your grip unique, and your routine is flawless, which is why your focus is unshakable. I’m not going to waste your time with questions I already know the answer to.”
As I finished, I realized, from the way Hoffman seemed to be fighting back the urge to fall asleep, instead of wasting his time with questions I could ask, I was doing it by explaining ones I wouldn’t ask.
I quickly cleared my throat. “You’ve done so much up here. So much I’ll never do. But I’d like to know, outside of baseball, what is the one thing you are most proud of?”
Hoffman sat up straight and shifted his gaze from the field to me. For a second, I thought I’d asked him something too big or personal for a rookie to ask a vet.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You don’t have to answer that. I’ll leave you be.”
“No. It’s a good question,” he said, his face still tight with thought.
“Really?”
“Yeah, I’ve never really thought about it.” He gave me an amused glance. “You’re a bit of a deep guy, aren’t you?”
“I, uh, I’ve been accused of that before, yes.”
“Let me think for a second,” he said.
Hoffman contemplated and then looked back to me. “My family,” he said. “My kids. I feel like I’ve been a good husband and father, and that I’ve raised my kids well.”
I nodded my head at his noble answer, though I was quite certain my approval was the last thing he needed.
“Is that why you play, for your family?”
His head started moving up and down again. “I’d say so. The life I’ve been able to give them. I’m proud knowing that I’ve protected them from hardship by what I’ve been able to do on the field.”
I nodded along. I wouldn’t dare disagree with him, but I didn’t have kids, or a wife just yet. I also didn’t have millions of dollars, bids to the All-Star game, or a house-size banner of myself hanging outside the stadium like he did. I could understand his response, but I couldn’t yet relate, and at the risk of saying something over the line, I asked him what I had to know. “Have you always felt that way?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Have you always done this for your family?”
“Well, when you’re young, this game is about you. It’s about your dream and what you want to do with it. But as you age, the reason you play stops being so much about you, and starts becoming more about what you care about. You dream about baseball when you’re a boy, but you realize it when you’re a man. A lot changes along the way. This place can provide for you, but there are bigger things out there than you. That’s what you have to keep in mind when you play. If you don’t, you’ll never survive up here.”
I let the wisdom of his words settle on me. Hoffman added nothing to them. Instead, he continued to watch the events on the field like some old sentinel at his post.
I looked out across the field with him. I’d spent so many days in ballparks and bullpens, and yet my time was only a fraction of Hoffman’s. My time around the game would probably end sooner than Hoffman’s as well, and with less fanfare. But when it did, legend or failure, we would both go back to being men, to lives that baseball had provided for, or destroyed. Such was our lot.
“Are you ever afraid out there?” I asked.
Hoffman furrowed his brow. “Yeah.”
“Really?”
“I worry that I’ll let my team down, sure,” he said.
“Ever worry you’ll do more than that?”
A long fly ball was struck out to the warming track. The buzz of the crowd surged with the flight of the ball and ended in a splash of applause when the ball landed in Jilly’s glove. The inning was over, and so, it seemed, was my conversation with Hoffman.
“I know how you’re feeling.” He smiled, standing up. “And I wish I could give you all the answers, kid, but I can’t. Some things you’ll have to experience for yourself to really know the answer to. We’ll talk more later.” He slapped me on my shoulder, then made his way out of the pen, walking across the field under a hail of autograph requests and pleas for his attention. He did not stop, though; determined, purposeful, like everything else he did, he disappeared into the dugout, back to his middle-innings routine that helped make him who he was today, leaving me to digest his words in the social silence of my rookie life in the bullpen.
Hoffman closed the game that night. He warmed up, perfect and precise and focused like a fearless man who would trust his life to his delivery. When his foot hit centerfield, the deep, unmistakable bell of AC/DC’s “Hells Bells,” the song that had heralded Hoffman’s arrival in the game for years, rang through the stadium. Fans stood instantly, screaming for the Padre who owned number 51 and the most saves in baseball. Light boards flashed, “It’s Trevor Time!” and the house-size display in left field ran clips of his legend, reminding all that they were watching history in the making.
I was glued to the railing. If there was one major league dream that turned out exactly as I expected it to, it was this one. I’d seen it all before, of course, on television and in person, but it never got old. It was just one of those sights that reminded you of why you pushed so hard. And there, watching Hoffman from centerfield, I realized that everyone has their reasons to play. Some are shallow and base, and some are as deep and rich as the history of the game itself. There is the pursuit of Hall of Fame numbers, and the desperation to simply be counted at the bottom of a list somewhere. There are paychecks, toys, families, and God himself. But whatever those reasons are, to work they have to be able to change, to evolve, just like we do.
Leaning on that rail, watching Hoffman make someone look stupid on his changeup while the crowd roared, I decided that whatever reasons I came up with for playing would be good ones because they were my reasons, and, even in this league, my reasons were the only ones that truly mattered.
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